


Don't Laugh at Me

by CrayolaDinosaurs



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bullying, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Parent!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:11:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrayolaDinosaurs/pseuds/CrayolaDinosaurs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has their own story. We don't always know it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [Miss Meg](http://www.megg33k.tumblr.com) !  
> I love you dearie.

Sherlock hummed excitedly as he bent to examine the dead twins lying on the hardwood floor. The cause of death was relatively dull, a simple gunshot to the temple for each, but the case was an interesting one. The killer had posed the girls’ naked bodies in the shape of a yin yang, painting one of them with the blood of the other and cleaning her wound, the other was scrubbed clean, the only thing marring her perfect flesh being the hole in her skull. It had taken time and effort, but the murderer, no, _artist_ had infiltrated the building, placed the bodies, and left in a span of mere minutes. He, and it was surely a male, must have killed the women elsewhere, probably drained and painted them in that other location as well. Sherlock stood quickly, walking away from the bodies and out the door. He walked out the rear service entrance to the museum and stepped carefully on the gravel, attempting to leave it as undisturbed as possible while he searched, bending occasionally to examine something only he could see. He came to a divot in the earth and crouched, practically lying on the ground to investigate. He plucked a small dark fiber from the rocks and squinted at it. His eyes widened in recognition and he jumped up.

“Oh, that’s brilliant,” he shouted. He almost ran over to John and Lestrade, metaphorically jumping for joy. “You guys are going to love this.”

A cough sounded off to the side, “Freak!”

Sherlock’s smile slid from his face and his eyes clouded.

...................................................................................................

_"Hey kid! Want to play with us?”_

_Sherlock closed his book and turned towards the shouts, his eyes wide and inquiring. He blinked slowly at the group of boys who had spoken, the feeling of confusion an unfamiliar presence._

_"Are you deaf?” the biggest boy asked, walking closer until he loomed over Sherlock where he sat._

_Sherlock pointed at himself and shook his head._

_'"Are you stupid, then? I asked you a question.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes got, if possible, even wider. He put his book down on the bench as he stood and turned._

_“I’m not stupid,” he mumbled as he scuffed the toe of one shoe into the dirt._

_"Well, then…?” the boy questioned, raising a skeptical eyebrow._

_Sherlock straightened his shoulders and looked the boy in the eye. “You want to play with me? Erm… Okay then.” Sherlock smiled slightly, his facial muscles fighting the irregular use._

_The boy raised himself to full height and sneered. The two in the back cracked their knuckles and grinned menacingly. Sherlock’s smile faltered. He stumbled back, and tripping over the corner of the bench, he fell into the dirt._

_The boys laughed cruelly, advancing on Sherlock. He scurried backwards as the boys approached. They backed him into a tree. He cowered. The two lackeys grabbed Sherlock’s arms and hoisted him up, keeping his back to the tree. The first punch landed firmly in his gut. He doubled over in pain. One boy grabbed his hair and yanked him straight. The next punches weren’t so easy. They caught him in the face, from left and right. Sherlock felt the blood gush from his lip as it split. He felt his nose break. He felt the hands holding him release as he screamed out. He felt the kicks from all directions as he bled and cried into the dry earth. He felt the breath in his ear as the main thug bent to whisper._

_"Like we’d really play with a freak like you.” They threw his book in the dust by his feet._

_"I’m not a freak,” Sherlock murmured. He repeated it over and over again. The blood and tears stopped flowing. The pain lingered on. “I’m not a freak. I’m not a freak. I’m not a freak.”_

...................................................................................................

“I’m not a freak,” Sherlock whispered to himself, fists clenching.

“Sherlock?” John’s hand was warm on his arm and the concern was evident in his face and voice. “Are you alright, love?”

Sherlock smiled, shaking the old memories from his mind and squaring his shoulders.

“It’s nothing, John. I’m fine.”


	2. Anderson

Anderson stood and crossed the lab as the mass spectrometer finished analyzing. His eyes poured over the results, searching. He mentally crossed out insignificant details, plotting and reworking the data, looking for the pattern. There it was, at the very bottom of the list, trace amounts of arsenic. But it wasn’t enough to be lethal.

Anderson slammed his hand on the metal tabletop. It had to be there. He was missing something. He sat down, rubbing his temples and thinking over the case. Oh! OH! The victim, male aged 57, was in agriculture. He had been for years. Yes, and there was copper on the results as well. The man had died of extended exposure to the insecticide, Copper Arsenate.

He ran from the lab, up to the DI’s office, where he burst in without knocking.

“Sir, I have it, the results. He was…”

“Poisoned by long use of a deadly insecticide. Yes, very clever Anderson. I would think you could decorate the results with flowers if you’re going to take that long.”

Anderson straightened stiffly, his excitement leeching from his face. He nodded to Lestrade, and walked from the room.

“Always a pleasure seeing your lovely smile, Anderson,” Sherlock quipped before the man could escape.

...................................................................................................

_Anderson sat in the library, open books covering the table in front of him. He bent forward, furiously taking notes, his forehead almost touching the paper. He paused, reread his notes, and erased something roughly. He leaned over and grabbed one of the far books, flipping quickly through the pages for some forgotten scrap of information. He found it and slapped himself on the forehead, before rushing to write it down. He continued his scribbling, every so often grabbing another book and looking something up, grinning softly to himself._

_“Psst,” the girls at the table next to him hissed. “Hey, psssst.”_

_Anderson glanced up, still smiling. “Yes, ladies?”_

_The girls giggled. The blonde closest to him whispered, “We were just wondering, did your mouth get in a fight with a train?”_

_Anderson’s smile faltered. “What?”_

_“The mess of metal in your mouth. That was some sort of disaster right?” Her friends laughed again._

_Anderson closed his lips over his braces and turned away from the women. He hunched over his notes and tried to look unaffected. The girls’ high-pitched titters increased in volume. He curled farther over his papers. They rose and sauntered past; the blonde paused by his shoulder. He looked up at her, scowling. Her smile was falsely sweet as she scanned him with her eyes._

_“You might not want to study too hard, it won’t help you much and your head’s quite big enough as it is. Oh, don’t look so angry, you do have such a lovely smile.” She sneered sarcastically as she walked away swinging her hips._

_Anderson looked down at his mess of writing. He clenched his hands so hard his pencil snapped. He threw the pieces. He let his head fall into his hands, pressing his fists into his eyes until his vision went white._

...................................................................................................

Anderson had his hands on his face, his head pressed back into the wall. He was breathing heavily, failing to soothe himself. He felt soft, delicate fingers brush through his hair. He opened his eyes to see Sally, and promptly burst into tears.

She pulled him close and held him tight, rocking and making soothing sounds. “You mustn’t let him get to you, babe. He’s just sore because John’s been in Dublin for a week now,” she said calmly into his hair.

Anderson sat up, wiping his face. “I know. I know.”

“I always said he needed to get laid, but perhaps I should have been careful what I wished for.” Sally commented offhandedly. Anderson chuckled. “Ahh, there it is.”

Anderson looked at her with confusion.

“You have such a lovely smile.”


	3. Lestrade

Greg was thrilled as he sorted through some papers on his desk, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an overexcited puppy. They were finally making progress on this on this case. Sherlock and John had been chasing down leads and moving forward by leaps and bounds. Greg had gone along, traipsing all over London, running from a mad hunchback, breaking down doors, barely managing to stay within the parameters of the law.

Greg grinned up at John and Sherlock, but they were no longer there. He walked to the door of his office and peeked around the corner. He saw them slip into the lift, holding hands and smiling at each other. He ran after them taking the stairs two at a time to catch up, and grabbed the door to the cab they had slid into before they could slam it shut.

He pushed into the vehicle after them, rubbing his hands together, barely able to reign in his euphoria. “Where to next, boys?”

John glanced at his husband, who was examining the Inspector shrewdly, before answering gently, “We’re just off home now.”

“Oh, bollocks. Sorry.” Greg ran a hand awkwardly through his hair.

John raised a placating hand, smiling softly at Greg. “Not a problem, I just have to get some food in this one, and we’re in need of a little shut eye. Not to mention, Mrs. Hudson’s been calling for hours. Apparently, Hamish is asking for us. As much as a three-year-old can do.”

Greg nodded as he opened the door of the cab and tried not to trip over himself as he exited. He almost managed it too. He blushed and bent to look back in to the car. “Well, if you get any leads, just call me, yeah?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and huffed a sigh of irritation. “Lestrade, do keep your desperation in check. We can’t have all of Scotland Yard begging to be part of some non-existent team. We will call when we have need of your services. Now, if you would,” he leaned forward and pulled the door closed, “we have somewhere to be. Goodnight.”

John slapped Sherlock’s arm and looked apologetically at Greg as the cab pulled away. Greg watched it disappear, alone on the curb.

...................................................................................................

_Greg grabbed his ball and straightened his crisp new shorts. They were white and shiny and perfect. Greg had begged his mum forever to buy them. He pulled his socks up past his knees and ran to the backdoor._

_“Greggy?” his mum called out. He stopped and turned, frowning slightly at his mother. “Oh, Greggy. You look so cute.” She pinched one of his chubby cheeks, smiling as he scowled and pulled away._

_“Can I go now?” he practically begged, his excitement overcoming his childish annoyance._

_His mother giggled and jerked her head at the door. He ran._

_Five minutes later, he was standing in a line on the football field where teams were about to be decided. He bounced happily as they selected captains and flipped a coin to see who would pick first._

_“Tyler.”_

_“Stewart.”_

_“Matthew.”_

_“Lionel.”_

_Greg’s excitement was muddled with each name called. Surely, this time. This next one, it would be him. He was ready, they had to see that. He thought wildly to himself, **pick me, pick me, pick me**._

_“Seamus.”_

_“Oliver.”_

_**Pick me, pick me, pick me.** _

_“James.”_

_“Oscar.”_

_Greg’s face crumpled, but he held back the tears. He was the last one in the line, again. Then one of the captain’s spoke._

_“Oh bloody hell. We have an odd number. Hey, kid. George, right? You don’t mind being referee do you? There’s a good lad.”_

_Greg took the proffered whistle and sniffed sullenly._

_He ran around on the outskirts of the match, always struggling to keep up, always by himself. When the game ended and everyone walked home, no one turned to thank him. No one acknowledged his existence. As he trudged back to his mother, his shorts still as pure white as they’d been that morning, Greg finally allowed the tears to run down his face._

...................................................................................................

Greg sighed, fighting down the past. He refused to let fresh insults open old wounds. He would not let this fester. He would not let Sherlock’s insensitivity make him cry. He clenched his fists, fingernails biting into the palms of his hands. He looked up at the sky and counted slowly to 10. He gave up angrily and attempted to punch the lamppost to his right, but a smooth brolly handle hooked on his elbow.

“Oh dear. I do so love your hands, rough, large, experienced. They do wonders on my prostate.” Mycroft had been examining said hands closely, intimately, speaking as if he’d forgotten Greg’s presence, and Greg blushed. Mycroft snapped back to himself. “It would certainly be a shame to damage them in such a way.” Mycroft slipped behind him, wrapping his arms around the stocky detective. Greg placed a trembling hand on top of Mycroft’s, leaning back into his embrace. Mycroft’s warm breath tickled Greg’s neck as he spoke in a sultry whisper, “Gregory, I have a project that requires your-” Mycroft tongued gently at Greg’s ear, “-assistance.”

Greg pressed his hips back, rubbing his bum into Mycroft’s groin. There was a soft groan and Greg smiled.

“Yeah, I bet you do.”


End file.
